


All we have is our winter

by Shaish



Series: Ghosts [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Cat, Dark, M/M, Torture, Violence, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This got dark as fuck towards the end. Um. Check the tags? Because it got. I JUST WANTED TO WRITE STEVE'S KIND OF RELATIONSHIP WITH GUNS AND THEN IT TOOK A TURN SOMEWHERE? ??? FDJKSLFDKSL.</p>
    </blockquote>





	All we have is our winter

**Author's Note:**

> This got dark as fuck towards the end. Um. Check the tags? Because it got. I JUST WANTED TO WRITE STEVE'S KIND OF RELATIONSHIP WITH GUNS AND THEN IT TOOK A TURN SOMEWHERE? ??? FDJKSLFDKSL.

Hands guide him, gentle this time, not pushing and shoving. Last time-

There was no last time. Was there?

He’s sat down at a metal table in a small room, a man sitting on the other side, and a rifle laid out in front of himself. The man wears a mask, like his own, but his eyes are barren and blue like winter. He doesn’t know if his own eyes look like that.

It doesn’t matter.

He looks back down at the weapon ( _like him? Yes_ ).

“ _Disassemble the rifle_ ,” his handlers order in Russian, specifying, because they could mean disassemble the man across from him, himself, or the rifle. They could mean anything and he’d take it apart ( _there’s the vague impression of red on his hands and intestines strewn out across the floor. It’s gone in a flash_ ).

He tries.

He’s a minute too slow, something that might be muscle memory aching and old.

They don’t care. A hard _thwap_ on his back with a baton and then they order him to put it back together and try again.

The man sitting across from him watches, doesn’t say a word.

The Soldier does as he’s told.

\--

A rifle to his shoulder, hands over his own ( _one hard, cold_ ), quickly helping him align the sight before taking a step back, the warmth behind him retreating, snow crunching beneath boots.

“ _With breath_ ,” the man behind him says quietly in Russian, just far enough that The Soldier can’t feel the heat of him ( _surprising, because they’re both cold_ ), but close enough that the voice is _there_.

The Soldier lets out a slow breath, warmth of it fogging in the air while he squeezes the trigger, absorbing the recoil on the same exhale.

The shot is loud, ringing in his sensitive ears, and birds scatter to the trees lining the compound and its barren, snow covered fields. But the bullet hits and he keeps the rifle where it is, doesn’t lower it because he hasn’t been ordered to, discharging the casing.

The Winter Soldier comes up on his right, shifting just the slightest. The Soldier glances over at him through his goggles before looking ahead. He can see the shot is a few centimeters off from where he’s standing.

He waits until The Winter Soldier steps back, his signal to line the rifle and aim another shot, warm and cool hands adjusting his stance the few centimeters.

He fires on an exhale and the shot rings out.

The birds scatter and the bullet hits dead center.

\--

They set up behind the brush, a tree a few feet behind where they’re both laid out, leaves rustling faintly in a light breeze and shade thrown out over them, cooling them just the smallest amount where they’re both sweating in their uniforms, not used to the heat.

It doesn’t matter

He looks through the scope.

The target is winding around the hills, only visible on the outgoing curves before reeling back in like a snake slithering across the sand. He keeps his sight trained through the scope, tracking.

Sixty miles per hour, eighty degrees.

“ _Two degrees to the right; change in wind_ ," the one next to him whispers in Russian. The Soldier adjusts the angle perfectly, letting out a slow breath as his finger gently caresses the trigger-

The shot scares the birds from the tree behind them, flying out overhead and casting shadows across the hot asphalt, waves of heat rising up from the ground.

The car goes over the last rounding curve, tires screeching.

He feels nothing.

A boot taps his left one, just lightly.

He glances over, goggles blocking his eyes, the same for the one at his left. It still feels like…

They both rise and he pulls off the scope, disassembling the rifle quickly and placing each piece back in its case resting by the tree, picking it up and carrying it with him when they leave.

He feels _something_.

\--

There’s piano music playing low and trickling and sweet, interspersed in high and rapid staccato notes, captivating the audience dressed to the nines. The whole party is enraptured in the varied sweeping notes and gentle, delicate fingertips dropping to hit ivory and black.

Bucky plays beautifully.

At the brief pause in the music, Steve steps forward where he’s behind the gathering of well dressed engineers, scientists, _doctors_ , their small _Shadow_ at his feet.

The bittersweet truth of it is- the sad thing is- _the hilarious thing is_ \- They don’t recognize Bucky, not one of them, even with their eyes locked on his hands and handsome face. They still don’t see the man they stole and the monster they made of him.

His hair’s cut shorter, bangs just below his eyes and slicked back like it was after Steve’s ma’s funeral, back short like it used to be in 1940, dressed in a suit and fitting right in. The fucking _funny thing is_ \- they don’t recognize him without a mask covering half his face and goggles blocking his eyes. They never paid him any real attention aside from blood samples and _tinkering_.

They’d recognize Steve in a heartbeat, and maybe them not recognizing Bucky is both a blessing and a curse because they can do this. Have Bucky play the distraction while Steve closes in on them like a lion hunting antelope. But Steve _hates_ it. He’d be nothing without Bucky. He wants the world to _know_ that.

The music starts its crescendo and Steve reaches behind himself, pulling the back of his shirt up far enough to grip the two guns tucked into the back of his pants and pull them out, aiming.

He fires.

They all fall quickly, save for a few, and Bucky continues playing right through it, notes rapid and precise and furious, a few strands of his bangs falling out of their slicked back style to dangle in his face, eyes intent on the keys. Their black Shadow darts under the piano chair, crouched and watching, and soon Steve’s guns are silent, the piano and a few gasping breaths the only sounds.

Steve walks over, coming to a stop next to the piano and closing his eyes, letting the music fill his ears, loud enough to almost vibrate in his chest, making him feel a part of something with no words, just like they’ve both become.

The song trials off to an end, the last note ringing out before fading into silence and gasps and breath, and Steve opens his eyes.

He looks over and Bucky slowly opens his own, looking up at Steve for a moment before staring down at the keys for another, suddenly slamming his palms down onto them with a _clangcrash_ , the left going straight through the metal and wood and cascading into pieces down to the floor. Shadow darts out from under the piano bench, tail up and wide gold eyes on them.

Bucky couldn’t play the piano, or any instrument for that matter, before they both fell from the train.

Steve walks around the piano bench, guns in loose hands at his sides.

Bucky’s eyes dart to him - still leaned down over the keys like he’s going to play -watching Steve, turning himself slowly around on the bench to follow him like a predator until he’s sitting on it backwards, back to the piano.

Steve steps forward between his sprawled legs and climbs up to kneel on the bench, metal of his right knee hitting the polished wood a little louder than his left and bracketing Bucky on either side, hovering over his lap.

Bucky’s hands stay at his sides on the bench, fingers still tapping out the occasional jerky, stray note, but his eyes are on Steve’s like they always are, intense and hostile and _angry_. There’s a few stray gasps of breath five or more feet away, three remaining party members trying to staunch their bleeding or crawl to the exits. Steve locked them and none of them will die, not yet, not unless Steve and Bucky want them to. And they’re just far enough away from civilization ( _private party_ ) and it’s late enough into the night that no one has heard the gunfire. They checked.

He’s not worried. They have time.

Steve moves to lean over him, slowly, hands going forward to brace himself on the piano behind Bucky, guns _clunk-clunk_ -ing quietly. He stares down into his eyes for a long moment before Bucky’s hands jump up, metal grabbing a hold of his waist and the other the back of his neck, fingers digging into his hair as he pulls Steve down and their mouths collide into each other painfully, teeth clashing at first before they’re biting at each other and sliding their tongues together, _hard_.

Bucky pushes forward and Steve lets go of the guns, hands coming up to dig his own fingers in Bucky’s slicked back hair, messing it up with a vicious sort of longing and satisfaction while his other hand grips the back of Bucky’s neat suit jacket, twisting the material and ruining it’s perfect line.

Bucky’s mouth slides messily down Steve’s chin to bite and nip harshly at his neck, letting out rough sounds, all anger and memory and love. Because that’s all that they really are anymore.

Bucky slides his hand down from Steve’s hair to drag the collar of his dark blue - near black - long sleeved shirt down and bite into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood, letting out an angry sound into his skin, and Steve lets him, digging his fingers hard into Bucky’s hair. Some of the tension leaves Bucky’s shoulders at that and Steve lowers himself to sit down on Bucky’s lap, drawing his hand around from the back of Bucky’s suit jacket to reach up and rest his palm against the right side of Bucky’s face, dragging his fingertips down from his temple, across his cheekbone and lower to his jaw.

Bucky lets out a harsh breath against his skin, hot air raising goosebumps down Steve’s spine before Bucky starts licking up the blood, tongue drawing up in long, slow strokes. He presses his lips gently to the bite and stays there when he’s done, eyes closed and just breathing in Steve within his space.

Bucky pulls his head back after a few minutes and Steve looks down. It’s not over, he can see the anger burning under the surface in Bucky’s eyes, feel it in the minute tremors and slight tightening of his fingers in Steve’s clothes, on his hip. But for now, they have a few old faces they need to bleed information from.

Steve pulls back after another long minute, grabbing the guns off of the piano behind Bucky before climbing off of Bucky’s lap and the piano bench, Bucky pushing himself up to follow soon after.

Two of the ones Steve left alive have crawled halfway across the room, leaving blood smears behind them. The other only a few feet.

They all let out terrified sounds when Steve and Bucky close in, Shadow jumping up to perch on the top of the piano keys with uneven, ivory and melodic _clinks_.

Steve thinks that might be the best music he’s heard on a piano, something unpracticed, undrilled, and untrained. He knows Bucky thinks the same.

\--

He’s not sure where he is, just that it’s dark and cold and there’s a constant _drip-drip_ coming from the other side of the room, thunder booming and quaking somewhere outside in the distance.

He’s in a chair, with his hands bound behind the back of it and ankles bound to the front legs, a blindfold over his eyes and a gag tied tight between his teeth. He was on his way home from work to see his daughter. He doesn’t know what he did _to deserve this_.

He’s been in the chair for a while. He’s not sure how long, exactly, just that his ex-wife and daughter were expecting him and that now they probably think he’s forgotten ( _again_ ). But he was going to go this time. He _remembered_. He made a breakthrough in his accounting and got a _promotion_. And he _ **wants** to see his_ -

There’s the harsh sound of a door creaking and he can just barely see light flooding down onto the left side of his lap. He sits up a little straighter, holding in a groan at his sore shoulders, his sore _everything_.

There’s a minute of nothing and then the gag is pulled down out of his mouth suddenly and he _flinches_. He didn’t hear any footsteps come down the stairs he knows are there.

“Please, I have a family,” he tries, voice accented in German, “My _daughter’s expecting me_. I have to _see her_.”

Silence. He tries again.

“ _Please_. What do you _want?_ ”

There isn’t so much as a shift. He can’t even hear anyone breathing.

“ _Hello?_ ” he asks in English.

Tries again in German.

Nothing.

After a long minute, his blindfold is pulled off.

He blinks rapidly, vision slowly adjusting to the dim lighting, the dark room only illuminated by the light coming down the stairwell diagonally in front of him and to his left. He shifts, looking up, and freezes.

There’s two men, dressed in black, one in a long coat with wild hair backlit and made half gold from the light coming down the stairwell, the other in a shorter coat with longer, dark brown hair. His eyes leap back to the blonde one.

“I know you…” he says quietly, face slowly contorting in realization, “But you…” he slips back into German, “ _You can’t be. **You can’t be**. They said you **died**_.” His eyes dart to the other one. “ _That means you must be_ -”

There’s no warning. Ca- The soldier moves. He’s hit so hard his head snaps with it and he sees stars, pain in his shoulders momentarily blocked out by the burst of pain in the side of his _face_.

He spits out three teeth, blood dribbling down his chin and onto his suit jacket.

When he looks back and can see clear enough, Capta- The Soldier’s eyes are... _angry_. That’s...He’s not _supposed_ to show anger. He’s not supposed to _know_ anger. To _feel_ it.

He looks over to the other one and his eyes are ice, but also a calm that sends a chill straight up and down his spine.

“ _Please_ ,” he chokes out, tears rapidly building in his eyes and fear an all consuming thing in his _entire_ **_being_** , “ _ **Please**. I didn’t know any of this would happen! I didn’t! If I had I would have stopped!_ ”

The Winter Soldier lets out a growl and then he’s _right_ **_there_** , warm palm pushing his head back and thumb pulling his right eye open, metal hand holding a small knife half an inch away from it.

“ _Please!_ ” he screams, “ _I didn’t know! The research possibilities were great! THEY WERE! BUT I WOULDN’T HAVE CUT INTO YOU LIKE THAT IF I’D **KNOWN** YOU COULD STILL **FEEL! THEY TOLD ME YOU COULDN’T FEEL! THEY TOLD ME**-_”

The knife comes down and carves out his right eye while he screams. The last thing he sees with it is a black cat curled around Captain Americ- _The Soldier’s_ feet, watching him like it knew this was going to happen the moment he’d said yes to an amazing research opportunity offered by _The Red Room_.

The last thing his other eye sees is when it darts from blonde and blue is the dull fury in blue-gray that ice has always been. The ice they put into _The Winter Soldier_.

They named them well. He’ll never see his daughter again. He thinks he might have known that deep down since someone grabbed him where he’d been unlocking his car in the setting of the evening sun.

Winter came early.

\--

He drops the knife to the ground, ignoring the light, _tinkling_ of metal hitting cement, breath coming fast and heart beating rapid notes in his ear. He can hear footsteps coming to him slow ( _Steve’s being loud for him_ ), something soft and prehensile brushing against his leg above his boot and he lets out a breath. Lets out another when fingers lace with the ones of his right hand. He grips them tightly, just standing there staring at blood on a distorted face, one of the many he saw when they were cutting into him like a cadaver before letting the hand tug him and lead him away, up stairs that a furry, black figure darts up and around the corner of the doorway at the top.

They set the abandoned house on fire, and don’t stay to watch it burn.

Steve doesn’t tug him close as they walk, waits for Bucky to move in on his own, pressing the arms of their held hands together, breaths ghosting out into the freezing night air.

The heat recedes from their backs and he holds their black Shadow in his cleaned off left hand, feeling the small heartbeat near his chest and tightening his grip on Steve’s hand with his own.

The snow will fall soon.

It’s alright.

All they have is their winter.


End file.
